


He's Cheer Captain

by sciderman



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel (Comics), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Bullying, Cheerleader Deadpool, Dreams and Nightmares, Dreamsharing, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, Pre-Spider Bite
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-04-07 20:54:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4277589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciderman/pseuds/sciderman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The irresistible Deadpool is here to conquer Midtown High, and a scrawny, reclusive student Peter Parker's heart is conquered along the way. A bizarre little High School AU, (sorta). Derivative of the events of Avenging Spider-man #12.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 5,6,7,8, holla if you think i'm great

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, it's because I've fallen in love with cheerleader Deadpool. I've been in love with him for a while, I'll admit. Been meaning to write a fic based on the antics of Avenging Spider-Man #12, and so here it is.  
> I found the idea of Peter being concerned that if it weren't for the spider-bite he'd still be reclusive and awkward a really interesting idea, and I wanted to explore him overcoming his social barriers without the aid of super-powers. 
> 
> This is my first fic, so please be gentle.

Peter Parker was just your average, everyday, teenage _loser._ Top in his class for every subject – especially the sciences, he had a special passion for science – and as nerdy as they come. Wide-lensed, thick framed glasses pushed up on his pale, gawky face, with small, sleepless eyes peering from behind them, clearly not enjoying the blinding daylight pouring into the corridors of Midtown High, having gotten more used to the darkness of his room at the late hours of the night, studying. 

Of course, he was punished for his excessive studiousness, because it _did_ have a cost. And here to collect the cost was Flash Thompson, source of endless suffering for poor, _puny_ Parker.

That’s what Flash called him, _puny Parker_. That’s what rang in Peter’s ear before he was usually thrown head-first into his own locker, bag snatched from him, belongings strewn across the hallway floor. Again today, for the _millionth_ time. It was routine, and Peter accepted it. He’s had worse.

Today was the first day of the new school year, and it’d continued much the same way as it left off, with Peter at the bottom of the food chain, silent as he slumped back into the same seat in class he had occupied the year before – near the back, of course, avoiding everything and everyone. He just wanted to get through school, he didn’t care about anything else. Peter didn’t have a blooming social life… didn’t really have any friends at all, if he was honest. It wasn’t like he felt like making the effort. Grades were his priority.

As far as this day was going, everything seemed the same as it had been, no new faces, heck, even though the room was bustling with life, friends reuniting after a long summer break, it seemed like everyone was just continuing the same conversations they had started months ago. Until the room settled to a whisper, and the teacher spoke up.

Peter didn’t pay any mind, of course, his lensed eyes fixed on the pencil he was currently sharpening, not looking up for one moment, until he heard the unfamiliar sound of an unfamiliar voice, hoarse, Demi Moore-esque, which must have been coming from an unfamiliar person. His disinterested ears suddenly perked up, his head upturned to take a glance at the source of the new voice. Peter was captivated in a second.

“…Name’s Deadpool. I just flew in from Canada, and boy are my arms tired! What? No love for old school jokes? In my old school, that would’ve _killed!_ No? Great, off to a great start…”

“Deadpool…” Peter mouthed, a little agape, fascinated by this new person, the new light they brought to the room. Peter was sure he had never seen anyone so beautiful. Deadpool was dressed neatly, clearly to impress, in a short black skirt, short-sleeved white shirt, and the sweetest red sweater-vest Peter ever did see. There were pouches strung about the man’s waist, Peter assumed because skirts didn’t tend to have pockets, which must be pesky. The red sweater-vest ensemble, along with the man’s warm, friendly smile (which mind you, was hidden by a red and black mask), had Peter’s heart fluttering. You might call it love at first sight.

Seems like this year might not be as uneventful as Peter Parker would’ve expected.

* * *

They shared most of the same classes, all the while Peter couldn’t keep his eyes off of the red and black doting man, observing every action and interaction. Where those guns strapped to his thighs? It suited him– boy, he sure knew how to rock heavy weaponry, (although, how the man managed to get those through the school’s metal detector was beyond Peter). The boy couldn’t find words, unable to begin to approach the man that had left him feeling so speechless. Deadpool was already a hit with the other students, quickly becoming the centre of everyone’s conversations, the whole world seemingly gravitating towards his irresistible presence.

“...and that’s when I _told_ him–– well, I didn’t _tell_ him anything, I shot him square in the forehead. Figured it served him right, for cheatin’ with Cynthia–– What has she got that _I_ don’t got?”

“Wow,Deadpool, you’re an inspiration. When my boyfriend cheated on me, I cried for three weeks.”

 _“Girl,_ you gotta conserve your tears, ammo costs less.”

“Is that poetry?”

“It’s my _mantra.”_

Deadpool had the most fantastic stories, and Peter could help but to listen to every word. His charisma was entrancing, Peter was in love. But as much as Peter Parker wanted to stand up and talk to Deadpool, he just couldn’t. Words wouldn’t come out of his small, silent lips, which is probably better than speaking aloud with his shrill, lispy voice. His glasses would probably slip down his nose, on account of all the nervous sweating. No, he couldn’t afford to embarrass himself in front of Deadpool. He’d rather be invisible than a laughing stock.

Even though Deadpool had a beautiful laugh.

Beautiful, so beautiful, Peter wanted to record it and play it on repeat. It was loud, hearty, and hoarse, and it filled the room. Deadpool loved to laugh, Peter could tell, he took any excuse to show off that beautiful, melodic laughter of his, flaunting it as though it were jewellery. It spread, too, everywhere Deadpool went, laughter followed. It was enchanting. Everyone was falling in love with Deadpool.

But none as hard as Peter.

* * *

The class bell rang, and Deadpool was among the first out of the classroom. Peter, the last. As always, wanting to keep out of the way of bustle of other students. Plus, the more time he spent in the classroom, the less time he’d have to spend out in the _battlegrounds,_ where he was more than likely to run into Flash, who was more than likely to run Peter’s head straight into the toilet.

Determined not to receive anymore swirlies this year, Peter patiently waited until Thompson was out of sight before venturing out, scuffing his way along the corridor, head down, arms close to his chest, tugging his backpack straps tight with both hands. He moved slowly, letting out a few audible sighs. First day, and Peter was already emotionally drained. Maybe he’d be better off homeschooled, he thought. Peter Parker was already smart enough to earn a degree in smartness, probably. Why did he have to show up, and, _god forbid,_ actually _interact_ with people? It wasn’t his strong suit.

He wished it could be. He wished he was better at it. He wished he could actually go up and talk to Deadpool, be able to crack a good joke to hear that beautiful laughter, and be the cause of it, but in the best way. Peter could observe and study social practices all he wants, but nothing could ever make him be good at it. It’s not like he could suddenly be bitten by something, and it grant him super-powers, one of them being great charisma? Stuff like that doesn’t happen. Well, if it did, it wouldn’t happen to Peter Parker.

 _“Yeah,_ that’d be _absurd.”_

Peter jumped out of his skin at hearing a beautiful rasped voice speaking from behind him. The scrawny boy froze in that moment, and the man who walked behind crashed right into him, quite harshly, letting out a small, cute little exclamation at the sudden collision.

_“Fuck!”_

The slap of books hitting the linoleum floor was clear on Peter’s ears, and he turned right away to see Deadpool’s (slightly scowling) masked face.

“Watch it, you little twerp! Look at that, you made me drop all my books. Ooh! Wait! This must be the part where we both reach to pick them up together. If this ain’t the beginnings of a high school romance novel, I don’t know what is.”

Right away, Deadpool knelt, quite gracefully, down to the ground to gather his books, Peter too, assisting the masked man in picking them up. Their hands brushed over the final one, Peter flinching and recoiling at the sudden touch. He stood quickly, stumbling backwards a little with the extra weight of the books. What were these? They weren’t assigned any reading yet. He glanced at the title at the top of the pile in his hands, which was curiously: _Everything There Is To Know About Arachnids._ He handed back the books, not a single word passing his lips, which Peter had probably clamped shut for fear of saying something embarrassing like _Hey, you like spiders? I love spiders! We should talk about it._ That would be dumb. _Mega_ dumb.

Without a word, or even an apology, Peter rushed away, heart hammering in his chest, his converse scraping a nasty squealing sound on the hallway floor. Deadpool looked onwards, a little baffled, but still, feeling a little smug.

 _I think we’ve found our high school love interest,_ he thought.

* * *

It was the cheerleader tryouts, that lunchtime, out on the field. Peter Parker was studying in the bleachers, or pretending to, just to catch a glimpse of Deadpool’s tryout routine–  to silently cheer him on. And there could not have been a more perfect day for it. The sun beat down in golden rays, which would’ve caught in Deadpool’s beautiful blonde hair, if, of course, he had any beautiful blonde hair for it to get caught in. Deadpool did look radiant, however. His masked face formed a gleeful smile, hard to distinguish, especially from a distance, but Peter could sense it anyway. Peter had a talent for sensing these things. It was like– Parker sense, or whatever. Deadpool was full of joy, and it filled Peter with all kinds of joy as well. Contagious.

Surrounded by every pretty girl in the school, and yet Deadpool managed to be the most stunning. Cheerily bouncing, with little red legwarmers hugging his fantastically muscled legs, little red skirt fluttering at his waistline. It was his turn, it was Deadpool’s turn to show his stuff, and boy, he blew everyone away.

He didn’t have any musical aid, but his ability to make up new cheers on the spot, it was impressive. Skilled in improv, and acrobatics.

 _“5,6,7,8, holla if you think I’m great, 5,4,3,2, if you don’t who cares ‘bout you?”_  
He cheered, as he twirled, before stepping to the side, his lean hips swaying.  
_“D-E-A-D, not quite yet, take it from me, P-O-O-L, love me, hate me, who can tell?”_  
His body moved forwards into a shimmy, before he fell forward into a cartwheel.  
_“DEADPOOL’s gonna rule this school, don’t believe? Then you a fool.”_  
And then another cartwheel, then another, building up to a fantastic forwards flip.  
_“BABY BOY up in the bleachers, y’won’t learn this from any teachers.”_  
He stood up, his tushie swaying, Peter completely entranced. Did Deadpool mean him? Couldn’t be.  
_“Not that I don’t have my complete faith in the American Education System,_ it’s just that–”  
Deadpool continued in his loud, cheering tone, before his voice droned away a little.

_“Uh.”_

Deadpool muttered quietly, once he realised he’d drifted off topic. Before he raised his pom-poms, voice starting low and reaching higher as he wrapped off his cheer.

_“Uhhhhhhhh–! Midtown!”_

With one final jump, accomplishing a perfect split in the air.

Everyone cheered, and Peter was breathless, mumbling a small “wow,” to himself. He had it bad. Watching Deadpool’s body move so rhythmically, it gave Peter the shivers. Apparently it had the same effect on everyone else, as Deadpool was immediately embraced by the existing cheerleaders, and instantly appointed Head Cheerleader, (Peter was sure that wasn’t how things usually worked, but then again, Peter didn't really have any clue on the inner workings of cheerleader hierarchy). The girls raised the man’s arms into the air, proclaiming their decision to the rest of the girls on the field.

 _Great,_ now he’s Cheer Captain, and there goes any hope Peter once had for trying to win Deadpool’s heart. Not that he’d ever have gathered the courage to speak to him in the first place, Cheer Captain or not. But now, it was solidified. Beautiful cheerleaders don’t go for socially awkward geeks. It didn’t happen. I mean, sure, it happened in the movies, but this certainly isn’t a movie.

“Certainly _not.”_ Deadpool spoke up, stood on a bench behind Peter Parker. Peter nearly screamed. In fact, he did make a very shrill noise, which he would insist was not a scream, and practically threw his textbook across the field. It didn’t hit anybody, thankfully, but rather, tripped up an unexpecting jogger, which fell to the ground with a grunt. The jogger behind him then tripped over his body, and another jogger fell, and so on, until it was a heap of around 7 collapsed joggers. Peter buried his face in his hands, hoping no one would notice he was the cause of it. A very furious _“Parker!”_ being called out from the heap proved otherwise.

 _“Wow._ Impressive aim. That’s like, 7 high school douchebags, one stone.” Deadpool said, nodding his head in a little awe. “So that’s your name, _huh?_ Parker? I was sure I’d never find out your name. Do you _ever_ talk?”

_“I– u-uh– my––”_

“Great, you _do_ talk. Do you talk English?”

 _“Well,_ I––”

“Take your time.”

“I-I’m–– Peter. P-Peter Parker––”

 _“Cute._ I’m Wade.”

“I-I thought your name was–– Deadpool?”

“Oh, yeah, that too. But you call me Wade. Wade Wilson.”

Peter felt the spiders in his stomach crawling up into his chest. Tingles in his heart. _Wade._ Peter felt he was blessed with this information. Savouring the sound of it on his tongue.

_“Wade.”_

“Great, you’re getting it. Now, _Patrick––”_ Wade spoke, voice lowered in a let’s talk business tone. He reached to Peter’s face, snatching the spectacles from the boy’s nose, which wrinkled instantly in surprise.  “I noticed you didn’t applaud after the little show I put on, and that hurts. And don’t say you weren’t watching, I saw those little lensed peepers on me all the way in centre field, sun reflects these babies, it gets very distracting.” The man said, waving the glasses as though it helped illustrate his point. “Why didn’t you applaud? I ain’t good enough for you? You’ve seen better?”

 _“N-no!_ You were amazing! _Breathtaking!”_ Peter stammered out, blindly facing the direction that Wade was not standing, his small, sleepless, lensless eyes blinking repeatedly. It only occurred to him after his outburst, that be may have came across a little too enthusiastic, and he recoiled a little within himself, clearing his throat, nervously.

 _“Heh.”_ Wade chuckled, dryly, bringing the spectacles up to his vision to notice the lenses were fogged, to which he kindly wiped them with his gloved fingers before placing them back on Peter’s frozen features. _“Boy,_ you sound like a school girl. And I should know, I _am_ one.”  

* * *

Weeks passed, and poor, puny Peter Parker couldn’t get the immaculate Wade Wilson off of his mind. His laugh, his snarky wit, and his short, wind-blown skirts. All, successfully, left the poor boy head over heels, fascinated by the red clad man. He would watch him in class, charming all of his classmates, he would watch his cheer practices out on the field mostly every lunchtime. Sometimes, he hid under the bleachers, not wanting to make it too obvious that the fact of the matter is, Deadpool had a stalker.

Wade didn’t approach Peter since their brief chat at cheer tryouts, and if Peter had the courage, he would’ve said something – anything, but, he didn’t. Wade occasionally offered a warm smile, hidden by his mask, or perhaps he’d even blow a kiss when he caught Peter staring. Peter’s eyes would instantly dart downwards, cheeks ablush. _Boy,_ Wade _did_ make him feel like a school girl.

Apart from actually feeling motivated to drag himself to school everyday, nothing much else changed. The days seemed to blur together, as though no time was passing at all, but really, it was speeding past. It was kinda like a film montage. That’s it, it was like a film montage. Set to cheesy, obscenely romantic teen-pop music. That’s what kind of movie this is.

Peter felt like he was floating, and nothing else on Earth could ground him. Everything he had previously thought important felt small, like watching the city from the highest skyscraper. Peter felt so _high._ Even Flash had stopped pestering him, for a while.

_For a while._

Montage over, uptempo pop-number wrapped up, Peter was brought back to cold reality by a basketball slammed into the back of his head. He fell forwards, arms quick enough to brace the impact as he hit the floor. _Boy,_ it was times like these Peter Parker wished he had eyes in the back of his head, or maybe some kind of _precognitive sense_ so he could dodge in time. No such luck.

 _“Hey,_ Parker. Seen you looking awful smug this year, _huh?_ Been taking things easy, _huh,_ Parker?” Flash Thompson, speak of the devil, leered over him. Flash’s foot nudged at Peter’s face, upturning it to direct the scrawny boy’s vision onto him. His sneakers were filthy, no doubt leaving a muddy mark on Peter’s face. Peter grimaced.

“Th-things were going pretty good, up till now.” He muttered, breathless. Clearly he had the wind knocked out of him when he fell to the floor. Twisting like a worm, he made an attempt to scramble to his feet, but was foiled by Flash’s muddied shoe resting firmly against his back, keeping Peter pressed to the ground. “Quit it”, he spoke back, pathetically.

 _“Quit it,”_ Flash mimicked, in a shrill, mocking voice, _“Ugh, Flash, quit it,”_ his tone was unbearable. Peter tensed, hands balled into fists as he kept silent, hoping for Flash to lose interest, and leave Peter with some remaining dignity. _No such luck._

Peter was pulled roughly from the ground by the back of his shirt collar, forced back onto his feet, which straggled limply underneath him. The unfortunate thing about being so scrawny, he was practically a _ragdoll._ Flash Thompson, on the other hand was a prized player on the Midtown Football team, and his skill in football was plain to see in the grip that Flash had on Peter’s head before slamming it against the lockers. Seriously, Peter’s locker was dented and the lock was busted from one too many collisions with his head. Luckily, the damage on Peter’s end was mostly internal.

When Peter’s head was pulled back from the battered metal, Peter’s locker door squeaked open. _Great,_ now the lock was _completely_ busted.

 _“Oops,_ looks like you’re gonna have to pay for that, Parker”, Flash snickered, a very self-satisfied grin painted on his all-american, conventionally attractive  face. Peter groaned, defeatedly, a bitter, but unthreatening scowl took his features. Before Peter noticed a red figure, approaching behind, a long gloved finger politely tapping Flash on his shoulder.

“I’ve got a better idea, _big boy”,_ the rough, Demi Moore husk crooned out, instantly gaining Flash’s attention as he turned to face the challenger.

“How about _you_ pay for it?” the voice was sweet, until it lowered into a frightening tone.  
  
“...In _blood.”_

An unloving gloved fist shot right at Flash’s jaw, and Peter could’ve sworn he’d seen the _“POW!”_ sound effect, like it were straight from a comic book. Flash was thrown aback, stumbling over his weakened legs. His hand was brought to his mouth, trembling a little, both in shock and pain.

Peter was in awe, eyes darting between Flash and his rescuer, still processing what just happened. Deadpool, head cheerleader, social butterfly, by all accounts, an angel from heaven above… Just _socked_ Flash Thompson, high school brute, right in the face. Right in his smug, jock face.

Peter _must_ be dreaming.

 _“That’s right.”_ Wade spoke, unsettlingly cool-headed, considering he’d just served one of the most brutal punches Peter’s ever seen. “C’mon, baby boy, let’s hang.” The man cooed, hooking an arm around Peter’s, dragging him away from the scene, a cocky bounce in Wade’s step.

If this _is_ a dream, Peter’s not quite sure he wants to wake up.


	2. P is for Pathetic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And you know what, Eugene?” Wade said, letting go of the very baffled, very dazed Peter Parker, and taking large strides towards Flash, before shoving at his chest with a pointed finger, “Parker here, well, he’s going to kick your over-glorified hunky blond jock ass.”

_“Did you get it?”_

“Cut me a little more slack, bud, this guy’s mind is a _mess_.”

“If you’ve got the information, then our mission’s over, Wilson. We don’t have time for this.”

“He’s _fragile_ , this is a _delicate_ process.”

* * *

“You _punched_ him!”

“Could’a done a lot worse, trust me. Thought about it.”

Deadpool dragged a stunned Peter Parker along the corridor, rubber soles scraping on the linoleum floor, his mouth still hanging agape. The student honestly looked like a tornado had just hit him, his shirt ruffled in a state, hair frizzed in every which way, glasses askew on his slightly bloodied nose. He had his head battered time and time again, but this static feeling in his brain was certainly new.

“Jerks like _Eugene_ back there only got one thing comin’ to ‘em, pal.”

“Your fist?”

“Oooh! You’ve got a little bit of snark in you, I _like_ that.”

Against Peter’s maddening curiosity to look back at Flash, who got his just desserts, he kept his eyes forward on Wade, who was immensely comforting, smiling back at Peter, letting out a low, mischievous chuckle. Which Peter returned with a more nervous, breathless laugh.

“Don’t laugh.” Wade’s face then fell grave, voice deep in tone. “This is serious. This is an intervention.”

“A— Wha—“ Peter squeaked out in confusion, as he was suddenly, quite roughly shoved through the door of the school gym. Peter stumbled, catching himself in his steps, before his eyes darted around the place, back to Wade as he approached him.

Peter had always been humbled in Deadpool’s presence, but this time it wasn’t because of the girlish crush he had harboured for the taller man, (okay, it partly was), but because of the absolutely frightening presence Wade had become. He was able to serve a killer punch to long-time tough-guy, Flash Thompson. Not any cheerleader, even cheer captain, could muster up something like that. Watching the red clad man loom over him, it had occurred to Peter that perhaps Wade wasn’t his saviour, but instead, the bigger bad.

“Want to check out my new routine?”

Or, maybe not. The pom-poms literally appeared out of nowhere. And surely Wade wasn’t donning his full cheerleader outfit just a moment ago—

“Wh—“

 _“P! P! P is for pathetic!”  
_ Deadpool’s arms were thrown upwards, forming a P-shape, hips sashaying.  
 _“A is for absolute absence of a backbone!”  
_ After forming an A-shaped bridge, the pom-poms shook their way down to Wade’s sides.  
 _“R is for ripe, rosy, red cheeks— wait, uh, shoot. Off-track. Ignore.”  
_ Smacking himself in the forehead with the soft tsh of the pom-poms.  
 _“Okay! K! K is for kowardice!”  
_ Wade carried on, with complete confidence that cowardice did, in fact, start with a K. Peter’s mind was honestly too muddled to even care.  
 _“E, as in even a toddler could knock ‘im out with one punch!”  
_ Dramatising his words, Deadpool threw an air punch towards Peter, his fist far away enough to make Peter feel embarrassed that he flinched.  
 _“R is for— repeated letter! What does that spell? P-A-R-K-E-R!”  
_ His pom-poms shook wildly with his swaying hips, a leg popping in the air as he squealed out a gleeful _“Yaaaay!”_

His arms fell, gaze focusing on Peter, who was absolutely silent the entire time.

“Wow.” Peter spoke up, after a moment, and the awe was genuine.

“Nobody’s ever insulted me in cheer format before.”

“It’s hot, isn’t it?”

“…Kinda, yeah.”

With a hearty laugh, Peter couldn’t distinguish whether it was faked or genuine, Deadpool knocked the back of Peter’s head playfully with the pom-pom in his left hand. Peter let out a weak wince.

“You fancy me a lil’ bit, don’t you, Pat?”

“Pete.”

“S’what I said.”

“You said—“

 _“Peter, Peter, Peter, Peter_ Parker…” Deadpool cooed, condescendingly, his hand cradling Peter’s chin, upturning the boy’s features to look up at him. “You know you’re never going to impress any girl if you keep bumbling like that.”

Peter swallowed, increasingly nervous, being held so close to Deadpool, red spreading over his bruised face. His breathing sped, short, sharp inhales through his mouth, hot breath managing to fog his spectacles. It may have been a good thing, so Wade couldn’t see the ridiculous wide-eyed expression on his face. Perhaps Peter Parker should invest in a mask too.

“Eugh, you’re a mouth breather. See? This is what I’m talking about.” Deadpool spoke, as he very courteously wiped the lenses of Peter’s glasses. “You’re the archetypal nerd. And nerds don’t get with head cheerleaders. So, yeah, this isn’t going to happen.”

Peter frowned, eyes averting down to the polished gym floor, the impossibility of Wade being with him washing over him in a cold sadness. Well, at least Wade was being honest.  

“Not without a makeover, that is. And like, maybe, boxing classes. ”

“Wh–“ “I know, you’re thinking that crap doesn’t actually work, it’s only in the movies, but trust me, buster, I know what I’m talking about.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a movie like th—“

“There’s like a Disney movie like that every _year._ ‘Sides, we’re not talking movies”, Wade placed his hands on Peter’s shoulders, shaking him as though it would bring sense into him. “We’re talking about 100% reality. We’re not dealing with fantasies now. This is real. For realsies, right now. I’ve got more chance dating Flash than being with you.”

“You punched him!”

“Exactly! That’s basically asking him out to prom! You know these guys, you hit them once, they think you’re in love with them or something!”

“I don’t think—“

“Trust me. Nobody knows how a man’s heart ticks more than I do.”

Peter didn’t doubt Deadpool for a second. Peter may be top of his class (or second top–– or a solid third, at least), but he had no clue how people ticked. No clue at all. He never once stopped to wonder about why anybody did what they did, he just accepted anything that came his way. And anything that came his way was usually a bad thing. Peter was cursed with rotten luck, and Wade Wilson seemed to him as an angel sent to save him from his own constant apathetic nature. This might be the first good luck that has been brought to him. A small exhale parted Peter’s lips before he spoke.

“Help me.”

* * *

“If you’ve got it, then lets go. Wilson, what is his name?”

 _“Lucille,_ n’it was a girlie this whole time, who’da thunk? She’s a wild one! That’s why I’m spending so much time in here.”

“Wilson, if you aren’t going to take this seriously—“

“You called me in on this. You get what you paid for. Honestly, you could’ve gone the easy route and just–– I don’t know–– pulled the mask off? Or, DNA tests or whatever. You wanted this the tricky way.”

“What we want is results, Wilson. Report your findings. Now.”

“Oh, _hush._ Things’re getting _good.”_

* * *

The beautiful masked man stood opposite his smaller, slouchier counterpart on a grassy area near the playing field. It was after school hours, and thankfully, quite quiet. The silence served to soothe the constant anxiousness the smaller boy felt around Wade. Of course, he did still feel the anxiety. Sweaty palms, the electricity firing between neurons at an erratic speed, resulting in his incredibly twitchy disposition. He let out unconscious little gasps at pretty much everything Wade did.

Deadpool, who dished out a killer punch to tough-guy Flash Thompson’s winning jaw— was going to teach him, Peter Parker, textbook sissy, how to fight. He had every reason to be nervous.

“Have you ever been in a fight, PJ?”

“Peter. And it’s kind of a regular thing. You forget about this morning?”

“I said a _fight––_ Who am I kidding? Those wimpy arms haven’t ever thrown a punch. So we’re popping your cherry. Hit me.”

“What—“

Wade gave a brute shove to the scrawny boy’s shoulder, Peter stumbling with a pathetic whine. _“Eeeh—“_

“Come on, hit me. Didn’t your daddy ever teach you that if a beautiful cheerleader asks you to hit her, you _hit_ her. You’ll never keep a lady if you––”

A weak punch flew to Wade’s chin. It was a soft impact, more of a caress than a punch. Wade was in awe. This was much worse than he had anticipated.

From Wade’s silence grew Peter’s worry, blurting out apologies like “Oh god, sorry! Did that hurt?” To which Wade responded with a noticeable amount of irritation.

“Are you _kidding_ me? What are you, made of twigs? Afraid you’ll snap? What the hell was that?”

“I-I’m sorry–– Sorry!” Peter squeaked, bringing his hands to his face instinctively, as though he were afraid Wade were going to lash out at him. Wade’s features softened, frowning apologetically after seeing how frightened Peter was of him. Of course, the sound of boots crunching on dead grass from behind him informed the man that he was in fact not the reason Peter was flinching. Wade refused to turn to view who was approaching, because he knew instantly from the scrawnier man’s face, just who it was. The familiarly irritating voice shouted out, unreasonably loud from behind Wilson’s back, giving him a jump, just from the volume.

“Hey, if it ain’t beauty and the _deceased.”_ Flash called out, leaning in with a particularly threatening scowl on the last word, directed towards Peter. Peter felt himself grow small, swallowing down hard as his shoes scuffed backwards, digging into the muddy earth. His hands fell behind his back, tugging at his own sleeves; a nervous twitch he had.

“Hey, why don’t you _kiss my ass_ , Flash Gordon.” Deadpool spat–– not literally, he was wearing a mask. But his tone of voice was though he spat _poison_.

“Is that an invitation?” The sickening grin on Flash’s mug earned a grimace from Peter, and an eyebrow raise from Wade, who instantly glanced back at Peter with an _I told you so_ look. Guess Wade was right about a punch to the face being the best way to win a guy’s heart. Peter wondered how many boyfriends Wade was able to score with that knowledge.

“Why are you sticking to Parker? Is he like, your cousin? Little cousin who can’t defend himself? Nah, you’re too beautiful to be related to this loser–– He leeching off of you? You don’t have to hang around this dork, you know. There’s way better company, right here.” Flash pressed a thumb to his chest, an unbearably smug expression taking his features. Wade laughed incredulously.

“Yeah, okay. Well, I’m sorry, handsome, but I’m already taken. Because _Parker_ here…” Wade scooted over to Peter’s side, hooking both arms around him, head resting on Peter’s hair, the position incredibly awkward due to height difference. Wade’s voice adopted a high, dreamy tone, popping his leg up in girlish smitten, _“...Is my boyfriend.”_

“I-I am?” Peter muttered breathlessly, mouth agape, mind in a complete daze at being held by Wade.

 _“Yeah-huh!_ He even asked me to prom!” Wade’s voice was high with glee, squeezing Peter in embrace. The smaller boy mumbled out a bewildered “I-I did?”

“Are you kidding me?” Flash threw his head back in disbelief.

“And you know _what,_ Eugene?” Wade said, letting go of the very baffled, very dazed Peter Parker, and taking large strides towards Flash, before shoving at his chest with a pointed finger, “Parker here, well, he’s going to kick your over-glorified hunky blond jock ass.”

 _“I-I am?!?!”_ Peter nearly squealed out in response, bringing his sleeve-covered fists to his mouth, shaking his head profusely.

 _“Parker?_ He couldn’t harm a _fly.”_ Flash snorted, glancing over Wade’s shoulder to the scrawny boy who was currently trying his very best to bury his head in the sand.

“Well, you better _hope_ not, pal, because that’s what you are. A tiny–– insignificant little _fly.”_ Wade gave a strong shove at Flash, voice rasped and threatening as his masked eyes squinted darkly down at him.

“...And Pete’s gonna _eat_ you for lunch.”

Eugene scrambled away, momentarily frightened, finding his bearings after getting his feathers thoroughly ruffled.

 _“Psh,_ whatever.” He said, dismissively, tugging down at his letterman jacket and brushing it off. His gaze turned to Peter, speaking gravely, “If it’s a fight you want, Parker, it’s fight you’ll get.” He grunted as he turned away, walking quite briskly to the school gates, hands shoved into his pockets.

Peter was a lot like the computers from the 90s. He was processing. Very slowly. I think his hard drive was overheating too. It was, afterall, a lot to take in at once. His knees were weak, he felt like he might faint.

And he did.

* * *

**DREAM LEVEL TWO**

_“Shit,_ this wasn’t meant to happen.” Deadpool called out from whatever astral plane he was now possessing. He didn’t bargain on this dream-within-a-dream crap. Sure, this was a mind-heist, but he didn’t intend for it go all _Inception_ on him.

It was dark. Unnaturally dark. So dark, nothing at all could be seen. No forms were brought to light. If this weren’t a completely empty space, you were sure to stub your toe on something.

A single stream of light falls down, slicing the darkness in half. Peter is in the centre, sat at a desk. The same desk he sat before. Wade could tell from the crudely drawn penis positioned in the bottom left corner of it. Then again, pretty much all of the school’s property had a dick etched on it, somewhere or another. What was that about? Freud probably has something to say about that.

Peter sat at the desk, scribbling in a notepad. The scribbling was frantic, the sound of the ballpoint pen’s non-stop scratching on the paper would tie anybody’s nerves into knots. Wade not being the exception. Through gritted teeth, the masked man shuffled towards the single source of light, his knee knocking into another desk, making a loud and sudden scraping noise that jolted Peter out of his chair in fright. His pen dropped to the ground, his head darting in every direction to get a look at the threat lurking in the dark. Squinting through his lenses, he couldn’t make out anything.

Wade stood still, silent, hardly breathing as he waited for Peter to make a move. Eventually, Peter sat back down, straightening his notepad so it was parallel with the lines of the desk. Before he tore out the page he was previously scribbling on, scrunching it into a ball before tossing it to the ground. Wade fell to the ground to retrieve it.

The school bell sounded. Deafeningly loud. So loud, both Peter and Wade had to cover their ears, their bodies tensing at the brutal noise. With a snap of a switch, the room then flooded with light. Sensory overload. Wade’s search for the scrap of paper was fruitless, blinded by the searing light.

At the doorway of the now well-lit classroom, stood Flash. 6'2", yet somehow towering as though he were 10 feet tall. Behind Flash, even though the open doorway provided a very small view, Peter could see the entire school watching through. Without spending a second thinking, Peter let his instincts take over, dropping instantly to the floor, crawling indignantly under the desks.

 _“Parker!”_ The familiarly irritating call-out was amplified tenfold, reverberating within the empty classroom. Peter heard the unmistakeable sound of desks and chairs being scraped out of the way as Flash rampaged towards him.

Thing is, the classroom was _huge_. It might’ve been as big as the football field, somehow. Dream logic, who knows? Still, Flash was on the track team, and was ploughing through the desks like a bulldozer.

Peter gasped when he bonked heads with Wade, who was hid under the desks with him. About to scream, when Wade brought his hand to Peter’s nose and mouth, covering them both. A little extreme, sure, but they had to get out of this dreamscape hell _somehow._

Peter struggled furiously, clearly in self-preservation mode, kicking his legs in a desperate attempt to shake Wade off. And _boy_ , Peter wasn’t easily overpowered, either. In fact, he put up quite the fight. Wade could barely restrain him, even with his physical advantage over the much smaller man.

With the frightening sound of Flash’s charging towards them growing louder and closer, Peter’s erratic flailing, Wade was barely able to catch a glimpse at the crinkled paper that lay on the floor. From what he could see, the angry scribbled lines formed what looked like _spider_ legs sprawled across the page–– Wait.

“Aw, come on! That’s just _so_ lame.” Wade yelled out, before the light enveloped the entire room, Peter falling limp in Wade’s arms. The whole scene blending together into white.

* * *

**DREAM LEVEL ONE**

Wade felt he was falling, briefly, before he was shocked back to reality.

Well, not reality, but the reality where Wade was wearing the cutest cheerleader outfit you’ve ever seen, and was somehow with his cheer team, midfield, atop of the pyramid. His sudden wave of consciousness making him wobble and fall, harshly, on his cute little cheerleader rump.  His team rushed over to him, helping him up as repeated gasps of _“Oh my god, are you alright?”_ were uttered.

Wade wasn’t paying attention. This wasn’t what was important right now. He didn’t respond. His masked eyes were scanning the field for any sign of Peter. Sure enough, the poor sap was sat on the bleachers, legs crossed, nervously tugging at his sleeves. Wade wordlessly pushed past the girls to rush to him, the cheer team making audible groans of exasperation at his leaving.

Wade felt guilty, he was really letting his team down–– Aw, who was he kidding? This was a dream. He’d never make cheer team in real life. Heck, he couldn’t even make it into the X-Men roster, and they take _anyone_.

“Wade, I can’t do it.” Peter spoke, his voice the firmest it’s ever been. “I’m not–– I’m not fighting Flash. Just–– call it off, please.” The smaller man stood up, tugging on his backpack straps, gripping them tightly in his fists. He looked down to the ground, rocking backwards and forwards on his feet.

“You’re gonna just step down to that blond jock twerp again?”

“Yeah, Wade. That’s _exactly_ what I’m gonna do.”

“You don’t believe in yourself one little bit, do you?”

“You don’t believe I could win, do you?” Peter snapped, grip tightening more on his backpack straps, so much so that his arms and fists started to twitch. “‘Sides–– What happens if I win? Flash’ll still make life a living hell for me. I don’t really _win_ anything.”

“You’d win a little bit of self-respect, with any hope.”

Peter was silent, frozen in place, eyes anchored to his shoes.

“Fight. _Don’t_ fight. Whatever. But, look, I believed in you, _Peter Parker.”_

* * *

 

“Peter Parker… _Peter Parker._ Kid from the Bugle, right?”

“Woah, no way, like, all the photos in my-– uh, _personal collection_ are taken by him. Crazy, right?”

“Almost as crazy as you, Wilson. Job’s over. Money’s on the table.”

“Not so fast, buddy. Like I said, you wanted this the _tricky_ way–– N’well, buster…”

There is the unmistakeable sound of a gun being cocked.

_“You got it.”_


	3. so fine you blow my mind

“Flash? Hey, Flash, l-look, remember that fight thing Deadpool called us out for? Y-yeah, I’m just reminding you, we don’t have to actually… Y’know, fight. Actually, I’d prefer it if––”

 _“Oh-hoh_ , you’re not weaseling out of this one, Parker. You’re _dead meat_.”

“I-I’d really prefer not to be––”

“Better tell your girlfriend you ain’t gonna make it to prom. You’ll be too busy being _dead._ ”

 _"Yeah,_ but––" 

“Great. This Friday?”

_“Wade!”_

“Prepare for your funeral, Parker.”

* * *

When Wade accepted this job, he didn’t quite know what he was in for. What was he hired to do? He was hired to find out information. To dig into Spider-Man’s subconscious, and dredge up the dirt on him. Find out his identity, his fears, weaknesses, insecurities… That’s like a whole flock of birds, one stone.

Wade was good at his job. Great at tracking down Spider-Man. He stalked him silently for a few blocks, admiring the spider’s nimble movements as he leaped from rooftop to rooftop. Spider-sense, that pesky spider-sense, that was the tricky bit. The crimefighter knew he was being followed, plain to see from his constant hesitations, glancing constantly over his shoulder over into the shady parts of the rooftops. But Wade was invisible, using the darkness to shroud himself from view. Squinting through the lenses of his mask to gauge the darkness, unable to make out anything, Spider-Man didn’t know what hit him. Flawless aim as a tranquiliser dart fired right at the back of his thigh, a sharp gasp escaping from the man as he stumbled, drunkenly, landing face-down on one of the many countless rooftops.

It’s not like Wade liked doing this to Spidey. It’s nothing personal. A job’s a job. Not that he didn’t get a little rush seeing the hero unconscious at his feet.

Okay, he leaped at the jobs that involved Spider-Man. So long as they weren’t–– Y’know, hit-jobs. As much as he loved to bring the pain, Spider-Man was just one guy Wade wouldn’t want a world without. Heck, he was his hero. An inspiration. And who else was he going to make the witty banter with? Sure, there were other smart-mouths in the Marvel Universe, but Spidey was the only one who could rival Deadpool in the quip-department.

Honestly, Wade loved the idea of digging into Spidey’s dreams, maybe stumbling into a dirty fantasy or two. That would be the ideal night for the merc. Sure, he’d rat out Spider-Man’s identity in the end, but come on, who keeps a secret double life in this day and age? Deadpool would be doing him a favour. Out with the old, in with the new. At least, that’s how Wade had looked at it before. There was always going to be the chance that he’d have a change of heart. It’d become so common for Wade now. His jobs hardly went along according to plan as of recent. Maybe he was softening up. Maybe he wanted to be more like Spider-Man. A _hero_... or something. He just wished it didn’t leave such a big hole in his wallet, and sometimes his head.

Be more like Spider-Man? It was a novel idea, considering Wade constantly did his best to separate himself from his familiar counterpart. He was Deadpool. Not some Spider-Man spin-off character, there were enough Spider-Men running around as it is. Wade was his own man.

Truth was, he _admired_ Spidey. In a whole assortment of ways. In any way you could imagine it was possible to admire somebody. Spider-Man was everything Wade wished he could be too. Noble. Good. Heroic. _Loved._ Plus, boy, that man had an ass you’d want to eat all of your meals off of, every day.

Imagine Wade’s surprise when he entered Spider-Man’s mind and glimpsed the man behind the webbed tights. A pale, gawky _nobody._ At least, that’s how his mind saw himself. Bullied by the stereotypical blond half-wit jock, and absolutely hopeless at anything with any physical demand.

Picture Wade’s surprise in finding out Spidey had lived the most cliché american high school sitcom imaginable. Peter Parker, Spider-Man’s mild-mannered alter-ego, fit nicely in the _massive loser_ trope. Wade was at a loss for words.

And a hundred billion times more _fascinated_ by the webbed wonder.

Right, so that Spider-bite kinda did a lot for him. Insta-hero. Just add radioactive spider-bite. _Cute._

But surely Peter was past that now. Surely there were more traumatic things he had faced in his time as a hero, than a couple of wedgies back in school. What’s with the high-school theme in the dreams? Was it just that Peter has a fetish for cheerleaders? Not that there’s anything wrong with that, at all. Actually, that’s something Wade was going to have to make a mental note of.

 _Invest in an array of cheerleader costumes._ Wade conferred to himself.

“P-pardon?” Wade’s employer stammered out, hands up defensively as he shrunk away from the gun that Deadpool was currently pointing towards his forehead.

 _“What?”_ Wade grunted, irritably. “Wait, shoot, did I say that aloud? I could’ve sworn that was internal speech. _Dammit.”_ Wade retracted the loaded gun from his employer’s face briefly, to use the barrel to scratch at his masked chin. Careless to the fact that the safety was off. The mystery man breathed a sigh, but his relief was short lived as the the gun swiftly brought back to his head. He tensed, closing his eyes tight, letting out small whimpers.

“Look, man, I don’t want to kill you. I _promised_ myself I was done killing fools. Clean slate, all that.” Wade spoke smoothly, with a frown. “But I let slide some info that I’m not sure I should’ve passed.”

“I-I hired you to––”

“Get you the information. Yeah. I read the contract. But listen…” Wade leant in close, his grip on the gun tilting to the side, the nose of the barrel twisting against his hostage’s forehead. There were a few definite sobs emitting from the man at the receiving end of the gun. “I don’t remember the part of my contract that says I gotta let you keep the information–– Or even be _alive_ at the end of the deal.”

“I-It’s in the small print somewhere––”

“You think I don’t read the small print? Boy, you _are_ careless.”

There was some begging. Some undignified pleading. Desperate sobbing, ugly tears. I mean ugly. Wade’s masked stare was unchanging, emotion unreadable, and hand steady. He glanced briefly to his side. The young hero, zip-tied to a heavy metal chair. Unconscious, but stirring. His muscles shifted and twitched under tight-fitting spandex, his arms tugging unknowingly at restraints that certainly wouldn’t be able to hold the hero if he were awake. The small gasps and breaths from the masked hero let Wade know that Spidey was still deep in a dream state, reacting to god knows what. Wade’s grip on the gun wavered, eyes averting downwards.

He was way too invested to back out now. Spidey had some serious issues that needed working out. _Closure._ Closure, that’s what he needed. The past was haunting Spidey, and heck if Wade didn’t want to ease the hero’s mind. Maybe it’s like a movie you get invested in, to want to see the ending of it. Wade cared. It was funny, really. He wanted to go to prom with Peter.

He’d just thought up the _perfect_ dress to wear, too.

_“Put me back in.”_

* * *

“I-is it too late to back out?”

“Way too late, buddy.”

“F-f-fuck.”

“Hey! You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Wade spoke, warningly.

“My mother’s dead.” Was Peter’s response, small as a whisper.

“Yeah, no wonder, with you using language like that.”

Peter snorted, turning his head away. He flashed a toothy grin, giving a little weak shove at Wade’s shoulder. In his time with Wade, it brought out things in Peter than Peter had doubted where even there. Humour. _Confidence_. Peter was opening up like a flower in the sunlight of Wade’s company.

 _“God,_ that’s corny,” Wade mumbled aside. He brought his hand over Peter’s shoulder, leading him out through the entrance of the school building, and to grassy area near the playing field. Flash was stood tall, waiting for them, a crowd of students encircling him, cheering as they noticed Peter’s approach. Clearly they all skipped the last few minutes of class to yet a good seat for the fight. Of course, the whole school knew about it. Nothing Flash ever does is low-key.

With a small push from Wade, Peter stood opposite the school athlete, towering and perfectly blond, wearing a unbearable grin on his lips that was both perfectly threatening and perfectly handsome. Peter swallowed hard, his shoulders tensing a little with nerves.

“H-hey, Flash, how you doin’?” Peter croaked out, feet digging into the soil, as though he were subconsciously trying to anchor himself to the spot.

“ _His mom, say something about his mom!”_ Wade whispered from the crowd, willing Peter on.

“Your mom is so––” Peter began, before falling quiet again. “I-I’ve actually never met his mom.”

 _“So?!”_ Wade raised his arms defeatedly, yelling in frustration at the fact Peter couldn’t even pull of a simple yo mama joke. This guy couldn’t be Spider-Man.

Flash shook his head, grin even wider, “Not only _puny,_ but _pathetic_ , Parker.” Pete’s head dropped down, eyes to the ground. He had been constantly called _puny_ and _pathetic_ for his entire time in public education, but Peter wasn’t desensitised one bit. It felt like needles being forcibly jammed into his chest.

But he wasn’t going to take it this time. Not with Wade watching, wide-masked eyes transfixed, silently withdrawing every little bit of faith he had previously put in this scrawny little man. It’d be easy right now for Peter to turn tail and run, which honestly was the top of his mind right now. But instead, he stood himself up straight, raising his voice to feign courage.

“Why are we doing this, Eugene? Why do we have to fight here?”

Flash raised a cynical eyebrow, snorting at the smaller man, as though he were impressed just with Peter’s ability to speak up. He folded his arms across his chest. “Psh, so I can show the school what a little snot-nosed _chicken_ you are.”

Disregarding the temptation to remark on the fact that chickens didn't _have_ noses, Peter responded with decent volume in his voice. “So, you think you need _proof_ for that? Is that what it is? You feel you’ve gotta _prove_ you’re better than me?”

 _“No––”_ Flash pursed his lips, a little baffled with what the younger man was getting at. “I don’t need to prove anything, ‘cause the school already knows it.”

“So there’s no reason for us to fight.”

Wade felt himself internally facepalming. What was Peter doing? The audience around him were whispering amongst themselves. Mainly murmurs of _“When are they gonna start punching each other? I have to be somewhere at four.”_

“Yeah–– No–– _Well––_ Maybe I just want to beat your wimpy butt to a pulp.”

“Well that makes you sound like a _caveman.”_

Flash emitted a confused grunt, which only further illustrated Peter’s point. He earned a few giggles from the crowd that filled him up with something. _Courage_. The real stuff. Fuelled him to go on.

“There’s a reason Neanderthal man died out, Eugene.”

“Is it because of _your mom?”_

A chorus of _“OOOOH”s_ echoed amongst their audience, Wade kissing his teeth and uttering a small, _“Yikes.”_

“It’s because there’s no call for brutality anymore, slick.” Peter said, cooly. “How about we talk it out?”

“Try and talk _this one_ out, Parker!” Eugene called out as he charged towards Peter, shoulders hunched, fist thrown back and about to be thrown right to Peter’s jaw if Peter hadn’t dodged in time. For a moment Peter let out a breath he was unknowingly holding in, his face shocked that he had managed to move from his spot. His eyes fixed to Eugene’s for a moment, almost apologetic, because the larger man was _fuming_. His fist gripped Peter’s shirt at the chest, no doubt causing the tearing of some seams, and some uncomfortable stretching of the fabric. Peter was shook and raised, his feet barely touching the ground on his tip-toes, as he was brought eye level with Eugene.

Of course in this instance, Peter couldn’t look the stronger man who was currently humiliating him in front of the school in the eyes. His vision instead darted to the side, at the audience for his suffering. Cheering. They were cheering Flash on. Great, Pete wasn’t even the guy people were rooting for. Pete was just the punching bag. The poor, scrawny kid was about to close his eyes and take his beating when he glanced over to Wade. He stood forward from the crowd, focusing solely on Peter. His masked face didn’t carry disappointment, or contempt, but faith. Wade’s eyes narrowed as he pressed his fist against his open palm, as if to say _“Show him hell.”_

With that, Pete’s foot shot straight at Flash’s knee, causing him to buckle backwards, letting go of Peter’s worn shirt. The small man took Flash’s imbalance to his advantage and leaped, sending a forceful kick at the centre of the jock’s chest, throwing him back. Flash landed hard, back against the grass, a loud groan escaping him. The crowd was frozen, silent, except for whispers of _“Oh my god.”_

Even Wade was speechless. Even though it was nothing he hadn’t seen before. Of course, normally Peter was donning tight spandex, and wasn’t nearly so scrawny. The sight was uncanny.

Peter scrambled immediately to Flash, looking down at him in stupor. “Y-you okay, Flash?”

“Sh-shut your face, Parker.”

* * *

Weeks later, and Peter’s classmates were still in awe. It was all anybody could talk about. Did you hear? Peter Parker beat Flash Thompson in a fight. Peter Parker? No way! He couldn’t even snap a pencil, how could he beat the school’s star athlete?

Well, Peter had no idea, but it was something that came from within him. Something he didn’t know was there before. But something he hasn’t stopped feeling, ever since. Self-satisfaction? _Confidence_. He didn’t know how he lived without it. It was as though suddenly he was breathing fresh air, after years of inhaling dirt. Somehow, he was free. No super-powers, gamma rays or spider-bite needed. This was all _him_.

He had the courage to ask Deadpool to prom. Properly. In fact, a few girls were disappointed they didn’t get to be Peter’s date. Peter Parker was the name on everybody’s lips. The underdog who surprised everyone. And he scored the cheer captain, too. Naturally, Flash was bitter. But a good sport, nonetheless.

Prom approached, and Peter was actually excited for it. For the longest time, Peter hadn’t felt excitement in his life, but everything seemed to be coming around for Peter Parker.

“You look... beautiful. Wow.” Peter murmured, when picking Wade up for prom. The man was stunning. He came down daintily, gloved hand sliding down the banister as his pointed high heels clicked down the stairs. Red silk draped over his legs, and a thin layer of black netting which gave the dress a dark shimmer. His waist was circled with black rhinestone, which traveled up his torso in elegant designs. Sleeveless and strapless, bearing the man’s fantastically muscled shoulders and arms, decorated only by small black beaded bangles, red evening gloves and a black silk clutch in his hand.

Peter shifted nervously in his well-fitted red suit, adjusting his very uncomfortable bowtie. He hated bowties, why was he wearing a bowtie? The first thing the dazzlingly beautiful Wade Wilson did as he reached Peter’s level is snatch the bowtie right off. To which Peter released an unfortunate little whine. He had spent hours figuring out how to tie that.

“You don’t need it. You look like a total dweeb.”

“I look like one anyway. At least let me be a well-dressed dweeb.”

Wade unbuttoned the top two buttons of Peter’s black shirt, making the well-dressed dweeb heave shaky breaths at being so close to Wade. The butterflies and sweaty palms hadn’t stopped, even with his new-found confidence.

“It doesn’t suit you. Trust me. None of this _nerd-get-up_ suits you.” He stood back a little, pursing his lips as he examined his date. “It’s not _you_. You’re someone new.” His voice was warm, like his hands, that pushed back Peter’s mess of hair from his face. The feeling of Wade’s hands on his forehead was the realest sensation Peter had felt in the longest time, and it warmed him up from the inside. A soft smile found it’s way to Peter’s face.

“Mom, Dad! We’re going now!” Wade called out to two adults who emerged from the living room. One a short, exceedingly hairy man, who seemed to have a permanent scowl on his face and looked as if he would only communicate in grunts. The other was a taller gent, who wore the most unusual glasses Peter had seen. Something straight out the 80’s, Peter thought.

“Go on, darlings, you have a good time.” The shorter man grunted out, his dialogue not matching his attitude at all.

“Wait, honey! We have to take a picture!” The taller man cooed, gleeful as he brought out the camera.

_“Smile, kids!”_

* * *

Prom was everything you’d expect. Except Wade and Peter didn’t know that, because neither of them had ever been to one. All eyes were on the couple, as they swung around the room, Pete’s hands loosely resting on Wade’s waist, careful not to crumple what looked like a very expensive dress. Wade’s gloved fingers toyed with the collar of Peter’s shirt, and he batted his eyelashes flirtatiously. Though that was hard to pick up on, through the mask.

“Y’know, this is not at all how I pictured this year to end.”

“Yeah?”

“My entire school life I’d been at the bottom of the heap. And then you come along––”

“Don’t be a sap, Pete.”

Peter grinned, eyes brighter than the mirrors of the frankly out-of-fashion discoball that hung above them. Wade mentally screeching at how darling that sight was. This little goofball.

It was under no control of his own when Wade leaned close, softly bumping his forehead against Peter’s. He could hear the clear sound of Pete’s shuddering breath, the younger man’s face nuzzling into the unfamiliar intimacy.

It was also under no control of his own when Wade pressed his lips against Peter’s. Light, warm, muffled by spandex, but the two melted into it, along with with everything else in the dancehall. The music was a murmur, the surroundings, a blur. The only sensation the two could feel was the small warmth they were sharing.

And it was real. _Real_. So real. The small hums and breaths, the tingle of heat. It was vivid. Like nothing either of them had felt before. Like they hadn’t truly lived till this moment.

Like they were finally _awake._

* * *

Yes, it was real. Masks pressed against each other, warmth shared. Small little head movements, as though they were hungry for something more.

Too good to be real. Too real to be a dream.

That’s when Spidey’s eyes shot open. 


	4. Oooh! Is this your dream or mine?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I was paid a pretty penny to scope out your brains––”
> 
> “––Find out my identity.”
> 
> “––But I had a change of heart! I pulled a gun on the guy. My employer. Because my big mouth had blabbed. Blabbed when I shouldn’t have. So I was gonna kill the guy and flee. None of this’d happen. But––”
> 
> “But…?” 
> 
> “My employer…”
> 
> “Your employer...”
> 
> “Got away.”
> 
> “You asshole.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been finished for a really––  _really_ long time. It's just ran so much longer than what I'd hoped, that I've ended up splitting it into two. I'm so sorry for the delay. Take note, this writing is really old, but I didn't want to change too much from it's original state, lest it change the tone of the fic entirely.
> 
>  
> 
> Speaking of changing the tone of the fic entirely, you might notice the ratings've changed with the addition of this chapter. This one's a little darker, so be wary.
> 
>  
> 
> There's a lot of nonsensical dream-leaping mumbo in this, that doesn't make any sense, and I'm not even _trying_ to make it make sense. Don't think about it too hard. No dream-infiltration plot line ever makes sense.

Spider-man was, to say the least, a little surprised to wake up to see the merc with the mouth, with his mouth planted on _his_.

He’s woken to worse things. But this _might_ be somewhere in the top 20 rudest awakenings he’s received this year.

When their masked lips parted, Spider-man fully awoken and struggling to process the goings on, the only sound the young man could muster was a long shriek. Wade chorused, with a higher, girlish shriek of his own. The merc scrambled backwards, pushing off of Spider-man, as he had somehow wound up sat in the young hero’s lap.

“Wade?! What––” the spider’s voice was frantic as his eyes darted around the foreign room, his chest heaving, body tense, trying to make sense of the situation he had found himself in. “What did you do?! What is this?! Wade? Where am I?” The fire of questions didn’t cease, the man making the very infrequent sharp gasp for air. “Why were you kissing me?! Is this a sex thing?! I feel so violated right now.”

“Before you say anything else, you kissed me back, okay?” Wade spoke, hands up a little defensively.

“I am zip-tied to a chair, Wade. I can’t exactly reach into my purse and grab the pepper-spray.”

“Believe what you want, honey. This was magical.” Wade stood up with bowed head, physically brushing off Spidey’s words as he brushed off his suit. His eyes averted to the side, when he noticed that Spidey and he were alone. Uh-oh.

“Uh-oh? Please don't say Uh-oh. I know when it's with you, it's gotta be a pretty big uh-oh.”

Deadpool could only offer a hysterious laugh.

Spider-man broke his restraints with ease, rubbing at his wrists as he stood up. His hands were numb. How long was he out for? How did he get here? Oh, that’s right. He was _sedated._ He scowled at Wade.

“So, what’s the story I’ll tell the cops when I hand you in? You roofied me?”

“Look–– I’m really gonna need you to listen to me here, Pete. I was just doing a job, and––”

“What did you just call me?”

Spider-man froze, eyes wide and blank.

“D-did– you just call me–? No–– Oh, no, no no.”

The hero brought his hands to his head, as if he were trying to squeeze his own skull. Loud, long, shaky noises of panic escaped him as he turned away from the mercenary, every muscle in his body tensing as a wave of rage overcame him.

He threw a sudden and forceful kick at the metal chair, leaving a brutal dent, bending it completely out of shape.

The mercenary was silent. Wide eyed as he examined the misshapen chair, whispering something along the lines of _I’ve never been so glad not to be a chair._

The hero was bowed forwards, away from Deadpool, turning only to offer a bitter, broken glance at the mercenary.

“You were in my head.”

Wade couldn’t force out a word. There was a pained silence between the two. Wade felt soaked in guilt. Like, washed over with a water canon, drenched in that nasty, hack-saw at his ribcage type of guilt.

“Spidey, you know I’d never breathe your name to anybody, right? That’s me. Lips sealed, forever. Sealed with a kiss. _Ha.”_ Wade spoke fast, not giving Peter a chance to interrupt. “Except, I did breathe your name to somebody. See, this was a job. I was paid a pretty penny to scope out your brains––”

“––Find out my identity.”

“––But I had a change of heart! I pulled a gun on the guy. My employer. Because my big mouth had blabbed. Blabbed when I shouldn’t have. So I was gonna kill the guy and flee. None of this’d happen. But––”

“But…?”

“My employer…”

“Your employer...”

“Got away.”

“You asshole.”

“But I’m gonna help you find him! We’ll sniff him down, catch him, and this whole caper will be behind us, and we can get back to making out!”

Deadpool paused, backtracking his words as if he had lost track of them some point after he had opened his mouth. He brushed his nose, shrugging noncommittally, to reclaim some of the casual edge he had never been known for.

“...or whatever.” He mumbled.

Peter stared wordlessly at the merc.

“Get out.”

“I said I’m gonna help you, dude!”

"Get out. I’m right behind you. With any hope we can still tail him.”

“Beautiful!” Wade squealed excitedly, and he rushed over to the window, clambering through with a swift jump, both boots landing loudly on the metal balcony. “Just what we need, more manly-bonding. Team-Up to last the ages!”

“We’re cleaning up the mess you made, Deadpool. And when this is done––” Spider-man grumbled, boosting the mercenary to the rooftop. Wade’s blood-and-god-knows-what-else-stained boots pushing off of Peter’s shoulders as he climbed over the ledge for a better vantage point. Peter crawled on after him, with every bit of grace that Wade lacked as he found the merc face down in the grit. “When this is done, Wilson, I want you as far away from me as possible. Capishe?”

“Aw, I know you don’t mean that, buddy.” Wade said, as he wore a cartoonish pout. "You and I, we had a good time tonight, I think." He pushed himself up and brushed himself off, moving to get a better view of the streets. There was a cab just departing below. Wade squinted, as he made a mental note of the registration.

“You know, for someone so insistent on calling me their friend, you’re awfully quick to betray me.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve dished up worse to folks who deserve less, Princess.” Wade muttered as his eyes traced the path of the car. He snapped his gloved fingers to earn Peter’s attention, outstretching an arm to point the car out. “There’s your man”, Deadpool spoke, “Same car he arrived in. Personal cabbie. What a weirdo.”

Without a word, Peter stood, outstretching to watch as the car drove further into the distance. “You better be right”, he grumbled, bitter, as he bounded to the next rooftop, hot on the car’s trail.

“Aw, great.” Wade groaned as he realised that tonight would be a game of trying to keep up with Spidey. Flawless gymnast-bodied Spidey. He who makes a living of jumping from rooftop-to-rooftop, Spidey. The much larger (and therefore, likely to hit the ground harder) masked man scrambled up to his feet, with a deep exhale, gauging the distance to the next rooftop. He bounced on his knees, anticipating, looking forwards and backwards before he decided that he probably needed a running start. Shuffling backwards, he let out a battle cry as he ran and leaped, landing hard on the next rooftop, tumbling down into a roll. Spidey, a few buildings ahead of him, turned back to stare at the man, and shook his head.

He was perfectly able to track Spidey earlier this evening, and that’s no easy task. Right now, Wade was just putting on a show.

Idiot.

* * *

They tailed the car, and it eventually stopped outside a dreary hotel. The man they were pursuing stepped out of the car, head bowed as though he were avoiding any eyes that could be on him. From what Peter could see, he was a fairly short, stout man with a dark complexion and oval framed glasses. He was also, painfully bald. The light that stone down on him from the flickering lampposts gave off a blinding reflection. He adjusted the suit he wore as he stepped into the building.

“Is that the guy?”

“Yep, that’s the sucker.”

“Don’t suppose you’ve got a name for him?”

“What? You think I’m Facebook friends with all my employers?”

“Well, I wouldn’t put it past you to––”

“I don’t know. It was an anonymous gig. Always forget to ask for a name. Pretty bad habit, honestly.”

“Yeah, definitely sounds like a bad habit. I guess murder for money is kinda a bad habit too though, right?”

“Right, yeah. I could do without the judgement, Mr. Practically-Perfect-in-every-way.”

“Do you know anything useful about this guy at all? Is he a fighter? Does he have buddies? Dangerous?”

“He’s a mutie. Got some sick dream-infiltration powers. He can enter the subconscious of any host. Or…” Wade gestured to himself, “He can put somebody else in there.”

“So why didn’t he do it himself? Why’d he hire you?”

“The mind can be a lethal place, sweetheart” Wade tapped his own cranium, to illustrate his words. “Trust me, nobody knows that as much as I do. This guy doesn’t have the stuff to defend himself, in reality or any dreamscape. He’s a guppy. Harmless. He needed me to track you down and face whatever nasties you had up there.” He pressed a finger to Spidey’s forehead. The hero frowned from behind his mask, nodding softly. Deadpool was talking sense, for once.

“Never would’a bargained for what I saw in there, though. You’re a real sicko.”

“Would you just look at who’s calling the kettle black,” Peter snarked back before turning his attention to the window. Wade would’ve made his response if Peter hadn’t abruptly hissed out: “ _Shh_!! Shut up. Shut up. I see him." 

The man had entered an empty room, top floor of the 3-story building. He sat at a desk, positioned conveniently near an unobscured window. Clearly, he thought he wasn’t being tracked. What a maroon.

“Oooh, yeah, this is too perfect. Whaddya know? This guy is new.” Wade said, pulling a pistol from one of his many hollisters. “Obviously never been in a hands-on operation before. Probably a desk type. Your problem basically solves itself, Petey.”

Peter panicked, piping up with fury: “You are _not_ killing him!”

“Sssh! Don’t worry. It’s got a silencer.”

Spider-man gripped Wade’s arm brutally tight, forcing the man to drop the gun.

_“You’re not killing him.”_

“Nngh”, Wade groaned, hand twitching in the hero’s grip. His voice was strained, “It’s really hot when you boss me around. I think you’re giving me a hard-on.”

With a grimace, Peter released Wade’s arm, as though he were dropping something filthy.

 _“Man._ ” Deadpool breathed out, with a wince. He rubbed at his strangled wrist. “Okay… If we don’t kill him, then what? He knows the dirt on you, and we have no dirt on him. He’s probably just the messenger boy. And he’ll pass that info to anybody who asks.”

“We _can’t_ kill him.”

“So we rip out his vocal chords and cut off his hands. That’ll solve the problem.” The merc’s suggestion won a groan and eye-roll from Peter. Wade continued, smug, as he sensed the hero’s irritation. “...Ooor, we kill him. Which is more merciful, do you think?”

Peter was silent. Thoughtful. Frowning as his eyes didn’t move from the target. He couldn’t think of any options. There were no options. It was kill, or be killed, along with everyone he’d ever cared about. His voice was a whisper.

“We can’t kill him.”

* * *

“Will we make out again, after this backfires?”

“Wine and dine me first, Wilson.”

“Oooh, classy lady. I respect that.” Wade spoke with a grin, “Okay, so, you wanna run the plan by me again?”

“We wing it.” Peter said, crouching on the ledge of the rooftop, preparing to swing.

“See, classically, that isn’t considered a plan. That’s more like the thing that somebody says right before they embarrass themselves.” Wade mumbled.

“So no different from any other day of the week, then.” Pete said softly as he thrust himself off the roof. He softly landed beside the window, making barely a sound as he peered through, at the man with seemingly no clue. Spidey turned back to the rooftop Wade had been perched upon, ready to signal him, but the merc was out of sight. Okay. Great. We’re on our own, Pete.

Smash! With a tightly clenched fist, Spider-man smashed straight through the (thankfully single glazed) hotel window, the sudden spray of shattered glass causing the culprit to shriek and cover his head as he scrambled to get away. He was still within reach of Spidey’s outstretched arm, though, because it grabbed the back of the man’s collar with force, pulling him backwards.

“Hey, chuckles! Leaving so soon?”

The front entrance of the room burst open, Wade striding in, heavy boots first, the rest of his body following.

“The party don’t start until I walk in!” Deadpool sang shrilly, leaning back on the door to shut it. His arms folded, eyes gazing to the squirming creature being held up by his ruff. The grin was plain to see on Wade’s face.

“Miss me?”

Peter couldn’t distinguish whether it was directed at him or the terrified man currently trembling in his grasp. He also couldn’t decide whether he was glad or nervous about Wade’s insistence to help. “I’m pretty upset you decided to walk out on me. That just isn’t good manners.”

The hostage chortled, voice shaky. “Y-you seemed busy. I-I let myself out.” There was a fleeting expression of smugness on his face as his eyes darted between Deadpool, and Spider-man, who was currently grabbing him tightly by the shoulders. “Left you two your privacy. T-tell me, how was prom?”

Spider-man’s grip tightened on the back of the man’s collar, constricting his throat, forcing him to choke. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to just kill the guy. Peter let out an amused little sigh before loosening his hold.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Please–– Take the money! Please, let me go!” The man heaved and sputtered, clearly frightened for his life. His trembling hands gestured to the suitcase that had been previously offered up, carrying Deadpool’s payment. Spider-man watched Wade, trying his best to read his response through his mask. He was looking for any sign of hesitation, but Wade spoke up nearly instantly.

“Oooh! I’m sorry, that was a limited time offer. But don’t worry, I’ve got another deal for you, sweetheart, and this one is on the house.” Wade said, as his hands swiped to his belt, gloved fingers wrapping around the grip of one of the many guns slung around his waist. Peter tensed, about to shout out, but he was cut short by the helpless man’s erratic struggling, Peter needing to tighten his hold on him, despite the growing anxiousness in the pit of his stomach.

“H-hah! R-right, because that’s the only way to keep me quiet. I get it. The classic double-cross. Tie everything up neat–– I s-saw it coming–– I didn’t expect Spider-man to be in on the action though.”

“Deadpool––” Spider-man tried to speak firmly, but he couldn’t help the clear nerves that shook his voice. Wade was walking close towards the whimpering man, gun in hand. The sobs from the hostage were loud, and pitiful. The closer Wade came towards him, the sharper the realisation came to the man that he may not live through this.

Sobs of “Please!” and “Don’t kill me!” paired with the frantic breathing and struggling of the poor man made Peter feel physically sick. His masked eyes were wide as he watched the events unfold. Peter’s small voice could only force out a panicked, “Wade!”

Clank. And the body fell to the floor. Limp. Spider-man felt he couldn’t breathe. He shrank away from Deadpool, kneeling down fast to examine the fallen man.

He was still breathing. God, oh god, thank god. Wade didn’t shoot. Just used the hilt of his gun to knock the man out. Unconscious. Peter breathed out heavy sighs of relief. He brought his hands to his own face, rubbing at his temples as he evened out his breathing.

“Ha. Had you worried, didn’t I?”

“What the hell are you doing, Wade?” Spider-man stood, giving a small shove at Wade. “He's concussed! A blow like that could’ve killed him.”

“Not as quick as a bullet could’a”, Deadpool said, smoothly, examining his employer. He nodded with a hum, as if in approval of himself. “I’m counting on the concussion, though. That’s our way out.” He said, his hand placed on the unconscious man’s face, moving it from side to side, he seemed to be making a mental note of his features.

“Oh, great. So that’s your plan. Give him amnesia?”

“Sort’a. With an open head wound like that, I bet whatever’s going on in that head is pouring out. That’s my plan. I’m gonna go into his head.”

"What? I'm pretty sure that's not how it works, Wade."

"Oh, and what do you know? You're not a mutie."

"Neither are you, Wade--" Wade brought a hand to Spidey's masked mouth, hushing him quiet.

"I don't need that kind of negativity, Petey."

Spider-man pulled away from the merc's hand, with a scowl. "Could you please not call me that."

"After all we've been through, you'd really think we'd be on a first name basis by now." Wade said coolly, finding a comfortable spot on the hard wooden floor to settle, laying down beside the unconscious man, hands placed atop of each other on his stomach.

"Hello? Hotel reception? I'd like a wake-up call, half an hour from now." Wade spoke, eyes on the ceiling.

"I'm just supposed to watch over you while you power nap?" Spider-man said bitterly, folding his arms in skepticism.

"Save your skin. Watch over me while I save your skin, thank you very much."

"He's probably already got amnesia. That's a pretty gnarly head injury. Besides, this isn't going to work."

"What did I say about negativity?"

Spider-man was considering knocking Wade out himself.

* * *

It didn't take long for Wade to be enveloped in dreams.

The place was red. In fact, most of everything you could see was red. Vivid, fresh wound red, paired with a darker, dried crusty blood kind of red. Far as the eye could see, (or, as far as the mind could span). The garish crimson did an excellent job of disguising the surroundings.

_Where are we?_

[Well, it certainly isn't a fun house. Maybe it's a _sex dungeon_.]

_Yikes, I wouldn't wanna be this guy's playmate._

Wade's attention was brought to an array of tools discarded on the floor and table. Sharp, cold and stained tools, that would make a man wince just looking at them, only imagining the bone-scraping, vein-slicing purposes they were intended for.

Medical tools.

Weapons of torture.

_Yeesh. What a sick freak. I'll tell ya, it's always the quiet ones._

[Hilarious. You know exactly who's mind we're in right now.]

_Yeah..._

"Mine." Wade whispered aloud, picking up a particularly bloody scalpel. He examined it, with a cold distance. There was a crash. Another metal table, decorated with sharp things, was disturbed. The contents knocked to the hard, polished concrete floor. Wade wasn't alone. Frantic breathing and a hurried scramble away, was plain for Wade to hear.

 _There's our man._ Wade's face was smug, pocketing the scalpel as he moved to chase the sounds.

_Why are we in my mind? This isn't what I planned._

[What did you plan, exactly?]

_I was gonna rip his memories right from his head. That's what I planned._

[Brutal. Well, that's that plan out of the window.]

So this guy doesn't have a subconscious. Okay, great. So he's like a leech, right? He feeds on other people's, cause he hasn't got any. Wow,  I almost feel sorry for this guy.

[No you don't.]

_Sure I do! No wacky fantasies -- no nothing? That's a sad life._

[Better than visiting this place, every time we close our eyes.]

Wade stopped for a moment, looking to the red splattered floor, scattered with metal. He sighed.

_You are such a downer, you know that?_

Wade was chasing the culprit through a narrow hallway, the walls dotted with doors, of all sizes, with all manner of names written in all manner of eccentric fonts on each. The red filtered lighting flooded in through buzzing lights on the low ceiling. Further down, it got gradually darker as the lighting began to flicker out. They both kept on running.

"What is this? A school hallway? Where's the principal's office? I'm telling on this guy!" Wade's voice was interrupted by shallow breaths from his running. How long had they been running for? Heck, probably like 30 seconds-- time perception's always a little warped in dreams. That or Wade's dream self was really, really out of shape.

[Well, what do you expect? You're a cancer patient, not a spring chicken.]

"What? I've always been the _springiest_ of chickens!"

[Always?]

Wade stopped, feet skidding on the concrete floor to slow him down from his sprint. He examined his reflection in the window of one of the doors. Gone was his crimson suit, and instead, the red lighting hit pale, sickly-looking skin. Scarless, but like thin porcelain. Like if you'd touch it, it would break. Large dark circles under his eyes, as if the flesh under his skin was black with rot.

"I almost forgot how _handsome_ I used to be." Wade said with a dark chuckle, bringing a frail hand to his face. His thin, grey lips curled into a solemn grin.

His hospital gown flew about his knees, hanging loosely on his thin, bony frame. His bare feet stood, stance poorly balanced on the suddenly, very cold floor.

[No wonder that guy's running. We look like a nightmare.]

"Ha. No more than usual."

[Head in the game. We're not in his mind, so we need a change of plan, fast. We're not any closer to catching the guy, and besides-- what were we planning to do once we caught him? Slice his skull open and scrub his brain down with soap?]

"Would that _work_?"

"Not that I'm knowledgeable enough for you to take my word on it, but no. That wouldn't work." A small, sarcastic voice rang from a distance away, in the flickering shadows.

"Oh? Then what's your verdict, brainiac?"

"You said it yourself. This is _your_ mind. This guy isn't equipped to deal with your demons. And boy, does it look like you've got some serious demons up in here." The voice revealed himself from the shadows, a youthful man, with a mess of thick brown hair, and eyebrows upturned in concern. "You should probably hire a priest or something. Douse the place in holy water."

"Honey, an _ocean's_ worth of holy water wouldn't help me."

"I think you're probably right about that." Peter’s response was soft, distracted by the extensive blood splatters sprawling the walls. He grimaced, turning back to Wade. “My point is this guy doesn’t stand a chance. He’s probably hiding under a table right now.”

“Or he’s having the time of his life with all the babes I keep up here.” Wade frowned.

“My bet is that without a subconscious of his own, he’s using your mind as a vault.”

“Why can’t these guys just use a thumbdrive–– leave my brains out of it.” Wade groaned, bringing a hand to his head, rubbing at cold, smooth skin.

[You thinking what I'm thinking?]

"You're literally my brain. Yeah, I'm thinking what you're thinking. But I don't like it." Wade mumbled to himself, with a frown. A sound of a metal plate clanging on the ground in the distance rang in Wade's ears. He yelled after the source. "Hey! I don't dig into your mind and start causing a ruckus, do I?" He huffed, shaking his head, "Honestly, this guy has the mutant power to infiltrate dreams, you'd think he'd be more stealthy about it."

Peter pressed his fist against his open palm, as though to say,  _“Show him hell.”_

A high shriek sounded in the distance.

"Sounds like he's already seen it."

Wade scuffled his way to the source of the noise. The constant sound of metal clattering, and clumsy screams.

Red, red, and red. Three Deadpools came to the call of eradicating the intruder. Katana blades slicing through the heavy red air, and at first glance, it was difficult to determine whether the gushing crimson that stained the blades was fresh blood, or just the way the light was hitting them. But as it appeared, the Deadpools were doing a much better job at getting the man to wet his pants in terror, rather than cause any severe injuries. What they were doing was some kind of intricate, interactive circus routine. Bounding into the air, paths entwining, fantastically choreographed dancing, all in the purpose of seeing how close they could get their swords to grazing skin without actually causing any wounding.

Needless to say, the poor victim was frozen with fear. Until one of the swings landed into flesh.

A horrific scream sounded, as the man collapsed, clinging onto his wounded leg, groaning in excruciating pain, as the blood dampened his trousers. (That wasn't the only thing dampening his trousers, mind you.)

The Deadpools looked amongst themselves, shocked. "Who did that?" one of them spoke up.

"I don't know, it sure wasn't me!" another one piped up.

"Bullhockey! I saw! It was your blade!"

"Was _not!_ You're the new guy. We all know it was you."

"You're the one with shaky hands, gramps!"

"Nuh-uh!"

While the mercenaries bickered amongst each other, the wounded man began his efforts to crawl away. Sweat-dampened palms pressing to the ground to pull his body along it. It was no easy process, which the man's loud groaning described in detail, but the Deadpools were all too busy to notice.

"Okay," the first Deadpool spoke up. "We'll all raise our swords, and whoever is holding the bloodied blade must be the guilty party."

"Sounds fixed, but okay." The second Deadpool grumbled.

The three raised their swords in unison, and gasped disapprovingly at the blood stained blade in the middle, being held by the second, and by extension guilty Deadpool.

"I knew it! Sir Stabs-a-lot!" the third Deadpool gawked, shoving at the culprit.

"Hey! It was an accident, asshole!" The guilty 'Pool shoved back.

The Deadpools' argument drew out into a full-blown fist fight, the first Deadpool doing his best to break it up, but eventually getting so whisked away with it, that he stood back and rooted for the third Deadpool to give the second Deadpool a good ass-whooping. As this chaos ensued, the true reason for all their trouble was successfully escaping their grasp.

Out of their grasp and into another's though, as the man crawled, his hands found Wade's boots, (the original Wade, now clad again in his iconic red suit). His eyes darted up in terror, and Wade's terrifying presence made himself known, bending down with toothy grin.

 _"Hey there._ Are you lost? I think we're headed the same place, I'll give you a lift."


End file.
